


Solace In Mortality

by LadyMonoko



Category: Original Work
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Blasphemy, But Not heavily so, Curses, Fate & Destiny, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, It Won't Get Better, M/M, Mental Instability, Not Happy, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Reference to Greek Gods, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sad Ending, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Writing Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-14 11:05:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMonoko/pseuds/LadyMonoko
Summary: Writing Prompt:Character A and B love each other but there was a curse put on Character B; forcing him to lose all memory of the man he loved (Character A). If he were to regain his memories, then Character B will die shortly after.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> As a background note;  
> "Wasteland" by Woodkid was motivation for this chapter. I highly recommend listening to it.
> 
> Friend who sent me a writing prompt; I made very slight changes to the wording of it, but I hope it's similar to what you generally had in mind.
> 
> This is purely for the hope of improving my writing, so I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> If there are any mistakes, let me know.
> 
> Thank you

How can one stay true and continue their servitude to Gods that show no mercy, to Gods that add onto the pain the world has already created? They promise of salvation, riches and happiness so long as the mortal flesh and blood follow in their footsteps, do as they’ve been told and stay in check. 

 

_To be the perfect servant, ready to be used in any circumstance._

 

He’s been told of the consequences of stepping out of line, of angering the Gods- it brought foolhardy women and lecherous men to their knees and beg for forgiveness- something,  _anything_ to be on the ethereal Being's good graces once more.

 

Then why-

 

_Why_ was _he_ being cursed with such a fate?

 

He had followed what was asked of him, never stepped out of line-he had changed drastically from who he was before. From the hopeless drunk awaiting death to the somewhat decent human being that has scraped something akin to a good life together.

 

He removed himself from the place he had resided, from the depressed and quickly faltering mind. He had given up his vices, the sweet taste of heady wines that quickly numbed his tongue to spout what nonsense the brain pleased, the removal of rationality and instead, focused on sensation. He had surrendered the desires of faceless men and women, the whispered murmurs and needy sighs shared between himself and the person he’d decided to bed that night. The empty promises of staying with them, only to leave as soon as their breath slowed to become even and deep.

 

He had been Icarus flying too close to the sun, ignoring the warning from Daedalus, drunk on the feeling of being free, of obtaining new heights that no other person would be able to feel. He should’ve remembered the story, should’ve heeded the warnings of miseries yet to come.

 

_He loved a man._

 

And it seemed that was the reason for this all to happen, wasn’t it?

 

 

A person they can use against him.

 

 

Brown eyes, darkened by the weight of the situation, hollowed and depleted, stared listlessly at the man that laid on his lap. The dark red curls he had often ran his fingers through has fanned out, framing the gentle features of the man he’d given everything up.  The slight part of lips, the way the dark lashes seemed so much longer than he remembered-

 

He clenched his hand into a tight fist.

 

 

He closed his eyes, taking a deep and shaky breath to try and calm his nerves, but he knew it was pointless. _It all was now,_ he thought absently, watching the face of his lover, the one sole beauty mark near the corner of his left eye. Those same eyes that he had gotten lost in, a deep green that brought him comfort- protected him from his own demons and fears. Those same eyes that, in the privacy of their home, looked at him with such adoration it made him feel…

 

_Like you have purpose again._

 

That someone would miss him if he were to leave, that he had found his happiness and reason of living. 

 

It was supposed to be perfect, he was supposed to marry him. He was supposed to be _happy_ , he had never demanded the Gods for any of it but to be gifted with something, no, _someone_ so wonderful, so-

 

“Otherworldly,” he murmured, hand shakily reaching out for the slack one that had been placed on his lover’s chest and squeezed it. He ignored the slowly fading warmth in the hands he had grown so accustomed to, the same ones who had comforted him through any the difficulties he'd encountered.

 

The gentle breeze that caused his hair to shift and move, wrapped around his arms, held him there and if he were to let it, the same breeze would enclose itself around his neck and stifle the air in his lungs. Would it enjoy the sharp intake of air or would it only add more pressure, to make it a quick death.

 

_Could he join him wherever he was?_

 

* * *

 

 

It started off simple enough.

 

Arturo Fahlgren, a thirty-three year old man with a slightly built body and fair skin, keen brown eyes that often held a playful glint in them, captured the attention of the many people he had talked to. His Light brown hair was wavy with the top being long, he had recently cut the sides to be shorter. His close friends had always told him to cut the hair off, it making him look scraggly and messy.

 

 

_(Sigmund would playfully tug on the longest strands that could reach just above his cheek bone.)_

 

 

_(It was Sigmund who would always whisper praises of how beautiful he is with long hair, how his hands would tangle in them in a firm grasp as Arturo would take his cock into his mouth.)_

 

Arturo was an architect, friends found it ironic, his name sounding almost similar to his profession- in which he would dismiss with his own chuckle. If anyone were to ask him earlier in his life if he’d wanted to be an architect, he would’ve scoffed, but now? It was a comfort to him, the practiced lines and angles from traditional pen and paper to digitally drawing plans- it brought him a sense of serenity. The quick-pace was something he had craved, to keep his mind off of things- to focus on the here-and-now rather than the tomorrow or the distant future.

 

(It kept his mind off of needing another drink, of a cigarette between his lips.)

 

(It quieted the hum in his ears and the chatter of nonexistent people.)

 

He’d brought himself from that hole and he refused to fall back into it. The withdrawals were horrible- the whispers and murmurs unbearable, but he’d tackle them head on. He pushed past the desire to cave in and let them consume his being. He'd  finally changed to someone better. To be able to look at himself in the mirror and feel…content with himself and the efforts he’d put in. It was for the best, that his mind stayed occupied.He had remembered the pitying glances people sent his way and he couldn’t handle it, _didn’t_ want to handle it. 

 

 

He’d met him randomly.

 

 

It was Summer, having finished up in the office later than everyone, the sun setting in its fiery orange hues which painted the sky in warm colours- red blending into pink, oranges bleeding into yellows and the beginning of the night blue, the clouds slowly rolling in. Arturo had decided to walk home, the heat finally dying down to something comfortable and the breeze that often came along during the night- the type of breeze that chilled one not properly dressed, it all made him enjoy his impromptu stroll.

 

“Mind if I get a picture?”

 

Arturo paused mid-step, brows arched as he turned his head to face a man, standing just beneath the low hanging branches of a weeping willow tree. Arturo first noticed the tripod standing tall, along with a black duffel bag with papers strewn about on the grass. It was then he finally acknowledged the man himself and was surprised he hadn’t noticed _him_ first.

 

The man had striking green eyes, deep yet inviting, even as they sparkled with mirth and amiability. Those eyes stood out wonderfully against his rosy-pale skin, a slender nose with a beautiful smile adorning his lips as he watched Arturo. The man seemed relaxed in his black shirt and blue jeans, simple cream-coloured boat shoes adorned his feet.

 

“Not to be creepy, of course,” he quickly added on, one hand holding onto the professional camera idly and the other tugging on the small ponytail slightly peeking out, the other loose strands resting on his forehead.

 

For some reason, he didn’t continue walking like he knew someone else might’ve.

 

Instead, he made his way towards the other, hands lax at his sides, face calm but curious on his intent “And why do you want _my_ picture?”

 

At least the man had the decency to look embarrassed, he gave out a nervous laugh, “Ah, well, it’s for a side project I’m doing- to capture the people who don’t have everything under control…basically. Sort of like an existential crisis but...not?"

 

Arturo hummed, eyes narrowing at the other man, and it seemed to have made the other flush, his hands raising up as if surrendering, before sighing himself. He removed the camera from its perch around his neck and held it up, “Lemme start over. I’m Sigmund Cosse, freelance photographer and hopefully upcoming artist,” he grinned teasingly as he held out a hand. The smile grew as Arturo returned the gesture, their handshake firm yet friendly, “The project I’m doing is Solace in Mortality.”

 

Arturo, genuinely intrigued, placed his hands in his pockets, “Sounds morbid,” he couldn’t help but point out.

 

Sigmund nodded happily, making his way towards the papers on the grass, collecting them into one neat pile before he hand them to the brunet, “It is. I uh- It’s to capture the facial expressions of people when they’re deep in thought. That’s what philosophers said we are- just thought and whatnot. So, we find comfort in our own thoughts- even if they may be destructive." 

 

At brunet's stare, he shrugged, "Imagine it like this, all the bad shit that happens when we're alive...only happens when we're alive. It's sorta...comforting? I guess-I dunno,  _look_. I had a proper explanation but uh- nobody really wanted to listen to it," he explained with a laugh.

 

Arturo couldn’t help but scoff with a roll of his eyes, the man  noticing the disbelief and seemed to add on hastily, “Not saying that you’re going through shit! I mean, maybe you are! But uh-“

 

“It’s fine, I know what you mean- believe me I do.” He calmed the man, eyes looking at the pictures taken from others- the different looks within their eyes held his attention. It seemed to focus, more so on the individual’s face than anything else- those that had included full body, their position were relaxed yet somber. Some antsy, others aggravated. It all varied and each one spoke something, a story unable to told to anyone but the subject.

 

 

“Everyone finds solace someway or another,” was the quiet murmur of the man standing next to him. As Arturo looked up to him, he noticed the ghost of a smile on his lips- this one contrite rather than the playful one earlier.

 

And after a moment, Arturo realized, he didn’t see any down side in helping him, of being a part of this project. It was fascinating and he wasn’t sure what drew him in, the name of it and how close it hit to home or-

 

 

(Looking at Sigmund once more, he felt himself smiling fondly as the other man continued to discuss the techniques he’d decided to use for each different photograph- why some were sepia and others monotone.)

 

-Maybe the man himself.

 

 

“I’ll do it, sure.”

 

 

The elation on Sigmund’s face made his heart beat faster, an abashed smile on his lips as he briefly looked away- unsure why someone can look that adorable just from receiving a reluctant  _sure_.

 

 

It took them moments to set up. Sigmund was holding his camera close to his face, one knee to the ground as the other arched, to steady his hand for the photograph. He had directed Arturo to lean on the weeping willow tree, telling him to move this way or that, to look at the camera or to look away and Arturo was realizing why he never really cared for photographs- it was a hassle.

 

There was a resigned sigh, “Okay um, maybe we should try you standing and looking off into the sun-“

 

“It’d set thirty minutes ago,” Arturo offered, voice calm and had tried his hardest to restrain the fatigue that had begun to settle in his bones. When he was tired, he was a lot more firm in his tone. 

 

Sigmund’s face paled, eyes wide as he looked around, the small park they had been in almost devoid of people, excluding themselves. The sky had become a solid deep blue, the chill more present as a gust of wind blew past the two of them, Sigmund shivered as a result. 

 

 

“Fuck.”

 

Arturo laughed, “Well that’s not quite professional for a freelance photographer, is it?” He teased, eyes blinking slowly as he watched the night sky, eyes catching onto the faint white blips- the blanket of stars appearing ever-so slowly. Distantly, he heard the other man talking and as he turned his head to watch- Sigmund had begun to pace, thumb pressed to his lip as he nibbled on it, eyes focused on the dirt.

 

 

The brunet took the time to watch him, his arms crossed. He did find Sigmund attractive, and his somewhat flighty personality is endearing. For the hour they had been doing this, he had seen the way his focus has honed in to become something so different that how he had been. The way his lips downturned to a small frown and the way he squinted up at Arturo, the commands and repositioning quiet murmurs whispered between the two of them, as if hiding it from possible listeners.

 

 

“Hey.”

 

 

Arturo snapped out of his musings, brown eyes catching green as he nodded his head in acknowledgement, ignoring how the other man was close to him. Sigmund reached a hand in his back pocket to pull out a simple black card, a smile on his face, “I didn’t realize how late it is, but…if you’re willing…maybe we can try that picture again? Some other time, I mean.”

 

 

Arturo stared at him, noticed the hopeful look in his eyes and couldn’t help but smile in return before holding out his hand a crooking the fingers. At the other’s confused expression, Arturo rolled his eyes and prompted, “Gimme a pen.” After achieving the item, he quickly wrote down his name and number, before capping the pen and handing them back to Sigmund.

 

“Most nicest way to say you want to try a date,“ he threw him a casual wink, placing his hand on his shoulder in a fleeting touch. The sputter he received and the blush on Sigmund’s cheeks was well worth the effort, snickering as he murmured-

 

 

“Call me sometime.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arturo was pleased with the steadily growing friendship between Sigmund and himself.

 

 

The redhead was an interesting man, he was usually talkative and expressive with his hands. A twinkle of light always seemed to shine in his eyes, whether it be teasing or genuine interest in the words Arturo spoke. That was what startled the brunet at first- how attentive the other is. Sigmund listened to each word as if he was waxing poetry, like he was the only person in the world and he couldn’t help feeling punch-drunk off of it. 

 

 

“What’s on your mind?”

 

 

He blinked a couple times, refocused on the man in front of him, a lopsided smile on his lips as he fiddled with the camera lens. Arturo coughed awkwardly, arms wrapping around his stomach as he looked off to the side. The two of them had decided to try again a couple weeks later, or rather- Sigmund had taken different pictures of him through the weeks that had passed. The late-night calls with hushed tones infused with motivation had Arturo agreeing to be his guinea pig.

 

 

_“You’re much more lovelier than a guinea pig, believe me, I’ve taken pictures of those.”_

 

 

And if that didn’t make his heart swell, well, he’d be lying to himself.

 

 

“You,” Arturo said, voice deceptively conversational but the way his heart pounded in his chest told him otherwise. He hadn’t meant to let that out, having been almost natural- Arturo felt a sense of peace wash over him that he hadn't felt in a long time, a feeling that nothing or nobody else had brought him.

 

 

_(He was a sap after all. As much as he had denied it, he wanted that type of love that had been in movies.)_

 

He thought it wasn’t possible but the more he spent time with this man, the more the little voice in the back of his head gave him hope and anticipation that he’d be the lucky one to experience that.

 

 

Sigmund scoffed, playfully pushing his shoulder, “No you’re not, I’ve seen how people look when the think of me. Usually a cross between amazed and disgusted,” he hummed, eyes returning to the camera, “Mainly disgusted though.”

 

 

Arturo decided to let that comment go, silently watching the way the redhead refused to look at him for a moment. It wasn’t his place to pry, he never enjoyed it when others did it to him- he wouldn’t do the same to another. 

 

 

But.

 

 

A part of him wondered who had caused the man to think he was disgusting, how can anyone find him so? He was so many things, but disgusting should not be one of them.

 

 

That could just be his biased opinion though.

 

 

The pair had walked to one of the botanical gardens, much to Sigmund's excitement as he told facts of the different plants he personally liked-

 

(" _White_ _ lilies mean chastity and virtue" _ )

 

("Oh, _ red roses actually mean love  _ and _grief"_ )

 

-and the random facts that Arturo didn't need to know.

 

 

“You can use ‘em as an aphrodisiac,” he offered, a sly grin on his lips as he looked at Arturo.

 

The brunet rolled his eyes, “Of course you’d say something like that, around children.”

 

 

Sigmund chortled, turning to face him as he walked backwards, he waved his hand dismissively, “Children don’t know what that means- but it’s true! It helps with gettin’ it up y’know? For all the people who don’t wanna use a pump, or too manly to use Vi-“

 

Arturo lifted his hands in exasperation, a frown on his lips, “Again, this is a place full of happy parents and children, I rather not have them hear this conversation,” shaking his head at Sigmund's antics. He had been following the other man, never once going to a Botanical garden but found it entertaining and beautiful, the efforts done into caring for the various plants, the way the vibrant petals of flowers both outshone and balanced with their neighbours or the way it felt serene in just nature and the two of them. 

 

 

(Not just the two of us. There are others. There are others.)

 

 

It was when they stopped beneath a pavilion gazebo, the beams of it encased in vines, did Sigmund tell the other they’d be taking a picture there. Arturo peered over the railing, noticing with surprise, the water that had passed below the gazebo, water lilies and other aquatic flowers floating lazily across the water. The various stones and the cattails adding onto the aesthetic. Trees surrounded the area, casting the place in a honey yellow radiance, a world different to their own.  

 

Arms crossed lazily over the railing, he peered out, brown eyes taking in their surroundings, taking in the quiet of the place and focusing on his senses. What he sees, the light assault of pine and the earthy smells of the soil and mud, the quiet chirping of birds and trickling of water.

 

 

He also heard the shutter of the camera going off, making him slowly turn his head to see Sigmund, camera held vertical with a minuscule frown on his lips.

 

 

Arturo gave a huff of laughter, tilting his head just so as he asked, “Was I good enough?”

 

 

The whisper he received was nothing short of breathless, as if witnessed one of the Gods before him, “You’re _perfect._ ”

 

 

His breath caught in his throat, eyes widening a fraction before he looked back at the floating flowers, he felt the heat from his cheeks but refused to draw any attention to himself. Sigmund’s voice was closer to him, their shared body heat welcomed and the way the other’s arm rested close to his, he didn’t mind the proximity.

 

 

“I do wonder, though,” the redhead started, eyes watching the expanse of water in front of them.

 

 

“Do you believe in fate?”

 

 

Arturo hummed, did he believe in fate? He believed his fate was chopped and screwed the moment he was twenty-five. That fate decided to give him a bad hand at the cards he gambled at, at the life he chose and the life he led. He believed that fate was something that made people push the blame onto Gods that have done nothing but watch over people. He was a religious man, believed that those above guide him to the right course of action- to get his head back on his shoulders. 

 

(Lies. Lies. They  _lie.)_

 

_To make him better, give him a second chance at living._

 

 

“We talkin’ the stars or of the three Goddesses?” Of course he ends up joking when it came to a loaded question. 

 

_'Deflect any question that hits too close to home and relates too much to you, that’s all you’re ever good for, isn’t it?'_ he ignored the words, didn't want to start with that thought.

 

Sigmund laughed bitterly, “Well, they both relate to each other, don’t they.” It wasn’t a question, just an observation, “Fate was watched over by three old ladies- according to the greek mythology anyway. It was a thread; _Clotho_ was the one who spun it, _Lachesis_ was the one that distributed it and…” he turned to Arturo, green eyes peering into brown, “When people die, _Atropos_ was the one that severed it.” He held up his index and middle finger to mimic the motion of scissors cutting.

 

 

Arturo, silently listened on, “Gods watched over humanity, watched us grow and watched us deteriorate. Yet, if the three Goddesses were the ones that had created fate- defined how we all live…then why do the Gods get upset with humans and send ‘em to Hell? Are we supposed to break the thread of fate and spin our own? Has anyone done that before…” he murmured, biting his lower lip in the process, eyes unfocused as he stared listlessly.

 

 

Arturo knew the feeling, questioned what he was supposed to do, what people had wanted from him and how can he be better if there was no indication on what _better_ was. He had wondered that as he downed the bottles and slept around. Wondered that when he missed the funeral for his mother. 

 

 _'Horrible, shameful'_  

 

“What if whatever we choose is just a web that had already been spun? We’re not really in choice of things, are we?”

 

Another empty question. And another question he asked himself.

 

 

“I believe in destiny, yes.“ Arturo watched the side of Sigmund’s face, his own resolve strengthening as he saw his look of resignation. He inched closer to the Redhead. “I believe that things are already set up for us, that we sometimes fuck it up along the way and that thread needs to be adjusted….” He opened his own hands, watched the palmar flexion creases, “I believe that we can’t decide some of our actions, but that we are still in control of them. That…you’re playing you’re own puppet- both the master and the doll itself, type of thing.”

 

 

“That doesn’t sound as rewarding as others phrase it.”

 

 

Arturo laughed, running a hand through his hair, “Of course it isn’t, you know me by now- Mr. Cynicism, here to ruin good shit.”

 

 

Sigmund turned to face him, eyes inquisitive  as he studied Arturo, he couldn’t help but feel flustered under the attention, as if being picked apart, “So you believe in finding someone? That right person.”

 

 

Arturo pursed his lips, “Depends, it’d be hard to find out- people wildly throw out their _soulmate_ ” he air quoted the word, rolling his eyes in the process, “But…I think It depends on how strongly you want to believe in the person. How they make you feel- have them entirely different that what you had wanted previously. Or, don't limit yourself, y'know? It's-“

 

A camera shutter went off, Arturo blinked, eyes wide as he turned to Sigmund.

 

The teasing grin on his lips made Arturo sneer playfully at the other, “You looked so serious while talking- had to capture it,”The grin had shrunk to something small and private, eyes lidded as he whispered, “I think I know what you mean, with the limitation thing. It’s…” he shook his head, smile growing silly, “Just something the heart knows.”

And Arturo, watching the man, found it true.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song used for the entirety of this chapter is "The Other Side" by Woodkid.

The mind’s a powerful weapon.

 

In the biological sense, the brain controls the body. It's the center of the Nervous System, controlling every aspect to ensure optimal functionality and performance. Neurotransmitters are what allows the communication between the brain and other parts, every tissue, every muscle, every organ. An interconnected web of neurons working together to ensure the body is alive and healthy- acting in accordance to how it  _should_. It would take too much effort for an individual to control their breathing, their digestion and to have the heart pump the right amount of blood in different circumstances all at the same time.

 

Intellectually, it’s one’s safe space, a secluded area within themselves that allows thought, emotion and memory to name a few. It is the same place that lets ideas ruminate to maybe,  _just maybe_ , escape that subspace and become a reality. It allows someone to think rationally, to figure out whether or not their words would cause offence, or to sweet talk their way to someone's bed and good graces.

 

A place where all ideas start.

 

 

But, what if one's mind is in a perpetual state of turmoil?

 

What if it’s a constant swarm of buzzing, where gentle words morph into high-pitched wails? Voices that sound like one's own remind themselves of past failures, people they no longer see, actions that aren't becoming of them. 

 

Then the mind become the person's worst enemy.

 

Their downfall. 

 

A warden.

 

Instead of bringing forth creativity, it nurtures poison. Black ichor that one tries so _desperately_ to contain by keeping their mouth shut, or else it will spill from one’s lips and stain the good around them. It will contaminate and wreck the steady walls of confidence and happiness one has built in a mere matter of seconds through anyway that it can.

 

_ In drinks. _

 

_ In drugs. _

 

_ In keeping secrets from others. _

 

It's a plague of bad thoughts, as what some call it. Just something that'll _come to pass._

 

But, doesn't that mean it will do as much damage as it can before it  _does_ pass? It's similar to letting all of one's friends and family slip from their grasp- to let them become infected and watch as the light within their eyes diminish.

 

(It'll come to pass. It'll come to pass.) 

 

Nobody can truly know how quick this plague is, how brutal it might be. Something akin to the Bubonic Plague or measles? Would one rather have it usurp their progress with the snap of its spindly and gnarled fingers- laughing all the while? 

 

What if one was the cause of this sickness? The original Infection.

 

_He_ was cured.  _He_ fell victim to it previously, and  _he_ out of anyone, should've known that he can still fall prey to it. Its hands are on him, and will never let go, he needs to understand that. He needs to build his immunity to manipulation, to desires-  


 

_ To himself. _

 

* * *

 

 Arturo's heart was beating rapidly, his breath stuttered with each deep inhale he attempted to take- to somehow calm his shot nerves.

 

 _"Monster. Fiend. Demon. Beast,"_ the woman whispered, low and full of disappointment.

 

 

 ** _"Murderer!"_** the child screamed.

 

 

He curled onto his side, the usually comforting and inviting sheets to his bed could protect him, will away the visions- to ground himself back to reality, doing nothing but restraining him. He needed to move, needed to touch something,  _feel_ something.

 

 _"Kill yourself, rid the world of people like you, **"**_ the man cajoled.

 

None of it is real, he has known this for quite some time now, had doctors tell him, had friends and family tell him. It was a trick of the mind,  _voices in his head_ , they'd explain gravely. Some gave him a dirty look, ushering others away as if he's dangerous. As if it's infectious. Others gave him the sympathy he didn't need, didn't  _deserve_. How was he supposed to know that what he heard was auditory hallucinations? How was he supposed to differentiate between what is fake and what is real?

 

 _ **"Why do they get to decide your fate? In what sense do Gods allow your suffering? They are no God of mine, neither should they be of yours."**  _The prophet preached.

 

Arturo's eyes were red-rimmed, hands trembled as he raked them through his brown hair. He wasn't sure where he was- no, he was in his room, safe from prying eyes, safe from the outside, safe from harming himself or others. Everything was blurry and his stomach was tied in knots.

 

_(Screaming, why do I hear screaming? Who's screaming?)_

 

Something shrill and constantly going, how can someone scream for that long? Their throat must be raw. He refused to move from his spot, attempted to melt against the bed- hide in the dark of the room.  _His room_ , he desperately tried to remind himself. He was in his room, nothing was screaming, what he heard was all in his head.

 

The brunet kicked out his foot, something slowly slink towards him- only to feel something hard and cold against his ankle. The familiar sounds of glass shattering jolted him upright from the security of his bed- to be ignorant of the shadows lurking beyond. It was then he felt frozen, like he was forced into cold water and his limbs have been frost bitten. There was a cut-off whine escaping his lips as he wrapped an arm around his legs and brought them closer to his chest.

 

Bottles littered the floor, some spilling their contents on the hardwood, others broken into jagged pieces. Too many bottles, too many drinks- too much of everything. His other senses slowly came to him, the thick stench of booze seemed to ferment within the room, the blinds closed which casted the area into a darkness he'd rather not reside in. He'd seen something shift in the corner, something mangled and too out-of-ends. Something that had too many joints and was too tall. Arturo watched as the being turned to watch him, small pinpricks of white aimed in his direction, the loud  _crack_ as its too long arms and legs bent at odd angles, moving towards him.

 

_'You're such a good boy, you know that, Arty? So good for me.'_

 

He hears static. That white noise when one turns on the television. It grows louder and louder each breath he takes, each step the thing takes.

 

(Can't move, Can't move. Made mistakes.)

 

He watched with panic in his eyes, fingers violently twitching as the mass crept closer and closer until it was at the foot of his bed. Contorted and broken fingers, sharp and missing the index reach out to him, latch onto his leg.

 

_'Why don't you take off the shirt for daddy, huh?'_

 

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to  _be_ in this situation, doesn't want to feel anything. Arturo doesn't move, but the panic builds, it builds until he feels as if he's drowning in it- like it finally wrapped its fingers around his throat and is enjoying the way it can make him immobile. Make him inactive and move his body into a proper position- something easier for daddy to-

 

**MONSTER, You could've saved her! You should've gone to the funeral!**

_Weak, pathetic! Everything you touch, it'll be destroyed!_

**_Whose Gods allows their own flesh and bone to suffer the pain you do? You don't deserve this? You're right, Child-WE don't. You are so much better than  all of it! Abhor thy fate that they have given you- what the Gods have given you!_ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Focus on the now._

 

Right, he's been better, has recovered from that.

 

* * *

 

 

They were both thirty-five and had been dating for three, strong years.

 

Arturo felt better, he had realized it as soon as everything around him felt calm. Felt as if it was only his own thoughts he can hear, nothing out of the ordinary. Arturo felt grounded in reality for the first time in years. 

 

He can _genuinely_ say that he's happy, delighted even. Sigmund was his opposite; when his cynicism reared its head, the redhead’s idealism would ground him, giving him the benefit of doubt and a bubble of hope.  Wherein his realism would soothe the perfectionist streak in Sigmund- coaxed him to admit that he created wonderful photographs, that his art is pleasing and thoughtful.

 

Sigmund knows how he is and made it in all the best intent to ensure Arturo was comfortable. How many times had he woken up to the lazy smile plastered on soft lips, green eyes watching him full of adoration? Times of which he ran his fingers through Arturo’s hair, tracing his lips and tucking himself just below his chin. Arturo had _dreamt_ of a domestic life, had prayed with all his heart for something like this to come to him.

 

_(And it did, in the form of a freelance photographer with a head full of ambitions and teasing smiles.)_

 

Arturo couldn’t deny that the sex was good, more than good, it was breath-taking in every sense of the word. He hadn’t fully acknowledged the difference between fooling around with a nameless individual versus sex with someone he loved. It wasn’t two strangers consensually exploiting each other for the means of getting off.

 

_A man who wasn’t ashamed of who he was, and laid himself bare- told of all his secrets and fears._

 

There was privacy, shared promises of something more. Sigmund knew his body, can make Arturo moan absolutely _pornographic_ if he so wanted to, a sound that surprised the Brunet himself. Sure, there was the grunts and groans, the needy sighs but never something that _vulnerable_ or unadulterated. He would usually keep himself in check around others.

 

 

_Never around the redhead, though._

 

 

No, Sigmund could unravel Arturo as if he were thread. 

 

_A man who was expressive in words and action, needing to ground himself to reality through the gentle press of fingers interlocked. Of voicing thoughts aloud. Of bodies being flushed together._

 

The man aimed for Arturo to find release-to be a total wreck in the process, from sultry commands that receive rewards or binding his movements altogether. It made the brunet writhe on his back, voice hoarse and hips twitching out of rhythm, begging to cum, _he’s been so good, Sigmund please-_ _Oh God_. The redhead knew what made him melt, the splay of fingers over heated skin, the sly smirk on those soft lips of his as he teasingly palmed the bulge in Arturo’s pants. The way he bit his lip before murmuring dirty promises that stained his cheeks red.

 

 

And…

 

 

Arturo knew his capabilities on making the other man speechless- he revelled in the way the redhead’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, anticipation in his eyes as Arturo got down on his knees. He’d press the side of his face to milky white thighs, and breathed in Sigmund’s scent. When Arturo took him into his mouth, head bobbing teasingly slow and humming in amusement at the other’s frustration, it drove him to please, finally giving the other what he craved.

 

 

(But as he pulled off with a wet _pop_ , he regarded Sigmund with a seductive smirk, lips swollen but still promising he’ll make him feel good and to _relax_. Sigmund’s voice was husky as he praised Arturo for taking it all, _You’re so beautiful wrapped around my cock, fuck, keep going, I’m close, Art._ All before giving a dazed and euphoric smile, his thumb rubbing at Arturo’s chin, never disgusted of the taste of himself as they kissed, more desperate than before.)

 

 When Sigmund had praised him, it hadn't felt dirty,  _wrong_ or manipulative- it wasn't said like how he heard it before. He would always brush off the inkling of fear that seized his movements, begging to ruin his mood and to remind him of what his father had done. that his touchalways seemed to remain, no matter how old he got.

 

He isn't. He isn't.  _He isn't. Not anymore. Don't let it consume you._

 

 

(Or when Sigmund drove his nails down Arturo’s back as he fucked into him, a broken whine escaped his lover’s throat when a particular thrust had struck his prostate.)

 

There's love and affection, there's a partner he confides in and would- without a doubt- lay his life for. Arturo knew that Sigmund often thought the same, has told him breathlessly, choked up on emotion and happiness, promising of a better life together. Of the unknown possibilities that they'd conquer together.

 

Together. Together. Together.  _The two of them._

 

 

Sigmund, for lack of words, was his saviour.

 

 

For so long he hadn't heard white noise, hadn't hear screaming or murmurs or disgusted comments thrown around in his head. Hadn't felt like he was in some subspace, nor did he see anything creeping in the corner of his eyes, playing tricks on him. He was renewed, he was _cured_ of all ailments, he was able to breath and feel as if the breath he let out wasn't a black plume of toxins- that it was similar to everyone else's and he can rest easy. Arturo was himself, both in mind and body, nothing urging him and provoking him. Hell, he no longer felt remorse for the things he'd missed out on, skipped out of fear.

 

He felt clean and it was so baffling to the man, having regretfully accepted the ill-suited fate that he will never be able to stand with a straight back. The heavy burden of his sins, of his thoughts and trauma, to weigh him down to the point of no longer walking. But Sigmund, in all his divinity, had eased the tension, allowed him to stand upright, to walk with a confident stride he hadn't ever expected. 

 

 

 

But, he should’ve known better.

 

 

He's sick, he'll always be sick.

 

* * *

 It started as it usually did.

 

The dull throb just behind his eye, the tremor that shook his form and the sudden drop in body temperature. He had felt nauseous and his anxiety had flared up violently. He had ignored the smaller signs, thought it was just a headache- he must've caught a cold, that's it, nothing else. But he couldn't move, he felt rooted in place and if he were to disrupt whatever space he'd reside in, everything will shatter. It will all break away to have him face the cold reality that he never left, that he was exactly where he had been years ago- he'd never met Sigmund, he'd never gotten better.

 

 **'How daft must you be? The longer you ignore it, the further we are away from salvation!'** The prophet spoke jubilantly.

 

He had barely made it to the washroom to vomit. Hands shakily holding himself up, as he emptied his stomach into the bowl, the wet sloshes sickening, his own retching making him cringe, his own smell and taste acrid to his nose. He continued to heave, hoping to remove the urge, remove the voices, remove the fear that settled on his shoulders, as if it never left.

 

 _'Disgusting. Vile. Repulsive.'_ The woman hissed vehemently.

 

The knuckle-white grip he had on the toilet bowl was the only grounding thing, forcing him to reality, to stay where he is, that he isn't some child- he has made so much progress. Why was he relapsing, he didn't drink anything, he was good-

 

 _'So good, I know you are,'_ it sounded like his father.

 

Years he'd skipped out on therapy, had hidden things from his doctors, thought he'd been fixed. He was naive, Arturo knows this, he reminded himself of it every single day. Willing it all away was not a healthy way of seeing about it. Unhealthy coping mechanisms he'd tried desperately to break but once again, it seemed to have encompassed him, even now as he spat up stringy beads of saliva. Soft and reassuring words whispered in the back of his head.

 

'Don't tell him, he doesn't need to know,' it's voice sickeningly sweet. 

 

How stupid was he to believe it, to follow in its words. To seek comfort in it as he pulled away from being hunched over the toilet. All of his strength seemed nonexistent as he slumped to the fetal position, the dull throbbing in his head slightly calming down with the cold tile pressing into the expanse of skin it can touch.

 

 

**'You are everything and you are nothing. You must unveil the cloth that shields thine eyes from salvation! Drown the sins in which you wallow in. For the time comes to be cleansed'**

 

He wanted it all to stop, what had he done wrong?

 

 

_Potential, potential. You have potential._

 

 

His vision swam, the headache too much, he felt as if he was dying, was he dying? No, the quickened heartbeat within his chest reminds him that he isn't dying, he might be on the verge of it, though. A heart attack, the muscle beating too fast and too quickly. He can feel every pump, as he pressed his fingers to his pulse by his neck, the rapid pattern reminding him of living. That-

 

_He can breathe._

 

He is living.

 

_He can hear._

 

He is living.

 

_He is alive._

 

He-

 

* * *

 

 

 

His limbs felt numb, weighed down by something. Panic set in his bones before he could reason, he tried to open his eyes but obscurity surrounded him, clouded his senses. He can only hear, there was no particular scent to signify what has happened. The unknown is something he feared. It left too many possibilities, too many blindsides, too many chances of old memories resurfacing. Too many variables and not enough calculation for them all.

 

His head throbbed painfully, he wanted to call out in what? Pain? Anguish? He held his tongue, _he_ didn't like it when Arturo cried out when he was younger, it was ill-becoming and  _ruined the fantasy_. 

 

 _"Arise Arturo, I have questions to ask of you,"_  the voice of two men murmured, one sounding guttural and hushed while the other sounded distant and honey-sweet, alluring even. The smooth one seemed like an echo, slower than the rasped tones. Before he can dwell on it any further, his eyes were greeted with a blinding light, making him wince out in pain but internally happy to regain his senses about him.

 

He stood before a shrouded figure, taller than average as he had to crane his head to see his face.

 

They were neither man or woman, but held the voice of a man-

 

_' **You are everything and nothing. Creation and Destruction. You are the cause of your own downfall and the reason why you rise.'**_

 

The being's skin was similar of marble, pale as stone and frozen, no marks or blemishes. Their eyes were a hollow and dull glow of the gold that seemed match with the vestments they wore. He couldn't tell whether or not they were looking at him or past him, body on tensing up- realizing how  _vulnerable_ he is at the mercy of them.

 

They wore a golden embroidered gorget, engraved with symbols he cannot recognize at a glance, but it seemed to be in latin. Greek, maybe. Ivory robes adorned their form, long enough to touch the ground, the sleeves able to cover their hands with plenty to spare. In all their entirety, only the right side of the face was visible. Raven black hair, long and tied into an elegant braid rested over their left shoulder, the excess strands covered the left eye.

 

Arturo could see the wisps of gold that danced around the being, as if they had created a cloak made from the stardust up above. The tippet the Being donned had markings on them, letters written in different languages. As Arturo followed its trail, watching it fall to the floor in a graceful pool, the ends of it seemingly darkened by ash.

 

The brunet shivered, it was similar to the clothing of a Bishop but much more celestial.

 

It was then that the dread in his stomach increased, fear flooding his system as he realized, he must be dead. He has never seen anything like  _this_ and he felt as if the air in his lungs was being taken away. He wasn't supposed to  _see_ this. This Being isn't for his eyes, for his tainted thoughts nor for his sullied flesh. The Deity's mouth was set in a frown, no, their face was entirely neutral, not helping the fear that continued to grow. 

 

 

He was speechless. 

 

 

 

The celestial entity leaned down to regard Arturo, _"Humanity has gone astray from their purpose,_ " the voices murmured, the echo of the guttural one rumbling.  _"The vices that wrap around their hearts has squeezed the muscle tight. They no longer see light and wallow in a darkness that they cannot be saved from."_

 

Arturo held his arms behind his back, brown eyes couldn't stray away from the divinity in front of him- he felt the gravity of those words alone, the weight of them sunk into his bones. It was as if he was being judged. None of his illusions have amounted to something like this, something- magnificent yet dangerous.

 

 _"Vices are what make mortals weak, to bend and eventually break,"_ their voice darkened, the anger bubbling under the surface but still held restraint. He wasn't sure how much was held back, but the warning was loud and clear to his own ears. The Being tilted their head, as if curious, mouth set in a thin line,  _"In due time, they beg for the aid of another, of someone to hear their anguish and offer salvation."_

 

 _Salvation_.

 

Offer salvation, to be free from whatever Hell someone is going through.

 

The divinity rose to their massive height, the shimmering gold glinting in the blankness of the room they stand in. They move with elegance, similar to being wraith-like, no sound was made-  just as spontaneous and wondrous as the Being themself. Arturo felt the twitch in his fingers, was unsure of whether or not he was awake, if this was real and frankly, he didn't want to ask. The way his body felt light, the voices died down, having only  _him_ \- it made him even more anxious.

 

To think, without the constant murmurs in his head, instead of feeling better- he feels at a lost.

 

_"You're allowed to speak, child."_

 

The brunet startled, unaware that the Being had stood directly behind him, arching in a way that seemed  _too_ flexible, hollow eyes staring directly into brown ones- pinning him to the spot. He's allowed to speak. He's  _allowed_ to speak...but what should he say? What type of thing would he be able to even ask? Would it even be a good enough-

 

"What are you talking about?" he couldn't help the way he stuttered, unsure if he could've spoke, felt as if they would judge and analyze him on the spot, distaste and a sneer on their face. But the low chuckle rumbling from behind him, the two voices merging into one cacophonous sound, made him stand straighter, refusing to turn to meet their eye.

 

 _"I am merely pondering aloud,"_ the amusement was evident in their answer and Arturo shuffled in place, distorted and waiting for the entity to explain themselves.

 

 

( _To feel less like an organism being observed under a glass.)_

 

 

There was no movement, a stillness that made Arturo's ears strain to hear something, anything. He absently realized that this was some form of torture- sensory deprivation and the brain becomes unstable, wanting to  _feel_   and see something different- something other than white. No sounds except for when they speak- \ even his frantic breathing seemed muted in this space.

 

He didn't like it.

 

 _"I can hear your thoughts running rampant, Arturo. Believe in me when I tell you, this will not take long,"_ the attempt of reassurance did anything but that, if he was honest.

 

Arturo steeled himself as he turned slowly, lower lip pulled between his teeth as he nervously wanted to see the Being rather than be at their mercy. It was foolish to have his back towards them, his paranoia flaring up angrily at the idea. As soon as he did, the other's sleeved arms rose into a welcoming gesture, all grandiose and priestly, welcoming their flock of sheep.

 

 _" **You** , Arturo Fahlgren, have relapsed into these vices. Not long ago,  **you** were seeking repentance for your sins. The substance abuse, the words spoken against the Heavens above." _ The guttural and melodic voice changed,  one noticeably slower than the other- no longer morphed into one- the harmonious one was firm, cold as steel as they regarded Arturo.

 

He felt colour drain from his face, his stomach churning in disgust as he knew what they were referring to. Hated how he had fallen prey to it, couldn't remove the urge entirely.

 

"I only wanted it all to stop. The voices...the illusions...the memories," he murmured, arms wrapping around his stomach, as he suddenly felt weak. Some would find it funny, a large man such as the brunet, cowering and attempting to shrink into himself, unable to voice his feebleness aloud, in front of them.

 

There was a hiss, low and extended as they dropped their arms to their side once more, eye narrowed,  _"That is what they all want, expect to be forgiven due to ill-judgement. You've relapsed. You've gone back to how you were but now, you hide it from your lover."_

 

At the mention of Sigmund, he felt his whole body freeze, eyes widening in panic as he looked directly into the hollow eyes eyes. The sharklike grin on their face only added salt to the wound.  _"When you have attempted to ruin the plans the Gods had for your life-"_

 

He tried to kill himself. The man's voice ringing in his head as he held the knife tightly in his fist, eyes blankly staring at it. He had found his resolve too, nothing had stopped him. The man in his head was happy, chanting the words over and over again, he could've felt the grin pressed to the back of his neck- if he were to be real.

 

_"- you had called out once more. You have called out for the aid of the Higher Ones, that you shall be better in actions, thoughts and to step away from temptations. They had given you a second chance, Lost Lamb."_

 

Arturo felt tears well in his eyes, quickly running down his cheeks to drip down his chin. He slumped to the floor, arms slack at his sides as he realized, he was being judged- he had pushed the experience into the darker part of his mind, to start anew and forget who he was. He was on the verge, but a part of him had asked out to God, anyone up above to help him- he wanted a second chance- guide him to be a better person. The tears that furiously ran down his cheeks as he screamed for that chance, to save him.

 

The Divinity didn't let up,  _"They did help you. Nothing else could have swayed your tightrope of Life and Death, child. That destructive path you tread on was guaranteed your **demise** ,"_ it echoed, a growl even _, "_ _You received a blessing from them above, in the form of Sigmund Cosse, your current lover."_ Arturo refused to look up, but his hand clenched into tight fists, knuckles white as he grit his teeth, feeling broken and hollowed.

 

_"That was their promise onto you, **T** **hey** wanted you to live and graced you withsomeone to bring you from that dark space. Sigmund Cosse was to ensure your second chance at living."_

 

The brunet didn't now what to say, so he didn't speak. 

 

The quiet hum of buzzing, the shifting of cloth was all he heard before,  _"You are in due time for a lesson Fahlgren,"_ they hissed, tone finally dripping the anger that had been present, thinly restrained but finally freed. Vehemence strong on their tongue as they continued, the gruff voice louder than the other,  _"You wish to hide from your lover then so it shall be, so the Gods demand of it. You have angered them and for that, **punishment shall be dealt with unto you."**_

 

He felt something jerk his head up, to stare once again at the being, heart hammering in his chest, he wanted to beg for forgiveness, to somehow appease them. But it's too late for that, he'd gotten his second chance and he ruined it, now he must deal with the consequences.

 

_"By granting your clean slate, your lover shan't have **any** recollection of you- mind body and soul. The thread that brought the two of you together shall be  **severed** due to your foolhardy."_

 

Fear in his form caused him to blink rapidly, a sharp cry out in pain as he felt something dig into his wrist and  _pull._ Looking down, he saw a slender blade from the sleeve of the entity before him. The wail grew in volume as it began to move, digging into flesh and muscle, tearing through effortlessly. His screams weren't for only for the pain, it was for the situation, for the fact that he had ruined something so beautiful. 

 

Had contaminated something pure.

 

_It'll pass. It'll pass It'll pass._

 

 

 

The blood that ran down his arm stained his clothes, the only other colour in the room- something his mind greedily focused on, some sort of semblance to reality. To wake up, he needed to wake up.

 

He felt a cold hand wrap around the bleeding wrist, his blood staining the white cloths of the celestial being. He felt sick, he watched as his own ichor, something tainted and rancid stained another purity, ruined something perfect because he  _wanted_ something. He  _craved_ to feel again. He gained feeling, he gained that happiness he'd never expected, he gained the quiet in his head and he didn't know the price of it. Didn't expect it to be dashed away from him.

 

They peered down, face set into their neutral expression, voice a soft murmur once more. the blood soaking between their fingers doesn't seem to be of a concern to them. The tears running down Arturo's face ran rampant still, he didn't care if he seemed childish, seemed less than. He realized the gravity of the situation, he fucked up, he fucked up, he hated it. He-

 

_"Sigmund has become a pawn in the middle of this game. You better **pray** for an early death because if Sigmund's heart swells with affection for  **you** , Lost Lamb. A mortal so selfish in his desire and spewer of false-promises-  **he shall die**. You are no longer in control of your life alone, but his as well."_

 

_"Love hath no place in a man like you."_

 

Arturo couldn't say anything, just silently watched on, felt numb in a whole new sense of the meaning. Felt guilty and disgusted, wanted to crawl out of his own skin. 

 

And yet...

 

"Who are you?" 

 

They narrowed their gaze, mouth set in a frown as they splayed their arms open once more,  _"I am Nothing and Everything. I am the Harbinger and the Receiver. I am what you fear and what you aspire for,"_

 

And in that instant, all he heard was screaming. The white around him slowly dimmed, his vision swimming once more, as his whole body felt weak. Felt his blood on his wrist, felt some parts of it cake and begin to flake off, felt the wetness of his cheer tick to his cheeks. he felt everything and nothing.

 

 ** _'It's coming, boy! All great gods must suffer a loss. To ascend, you must lose. The time is coming soon!'_  **yelled a prophet.

 

 

It was all he heard before his world faded to black.


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was setting the atmosphere for myself while writing but in case you would also like to hear what I've used as inspiration then please.
> 
> "The Shore" by Woodkid was listened to (on shameless repeat) up until the point of the story that ends off with "...Yeah, you're right" just before the horizontal line break.
> 
> While everything after (starting with "Arturo was torturing himself") that was written with Woodkid's "Where I Live", again shamelessly being repeated.

 He knew it wasn't some sort of severe auditory or visual hallucination, wasn't deep in his head for him to lose a sense of reality. It wasn't some drunken stupor or some doped-out experience from smoking.

 

It was real, he had proof of it also, a parting gift from the celestial Being- of a messenger from the Gods above to incur their wrath onto Arturo.

 

_Anathema Sit._

 

The writing was astoundingly neat for the morbid way it was written, there were no jagged lines, no uneven surface nor letter out of place. It was calligraphy on human skin. It was a scar, it was tender and it was fascinating. There was a dull ache in his forearm as he traced each letter slowly, he couldn't consider it anything less than a  _mark._

 

**'You're a marked man! Oh joyful day! They are threatened by us, by our untapped potential! Soon we shall rise to the Heavens and take the Kingdom that we rightly deserve! We shall become Gods!'** the prophet roared, the tone sounding rasped but just as similar to being sagely.  


 

_Anathema Sit._

 

He heard those words before, had tried to understand what they meant. He used the hand to his unmarked arm to run through his hair, eyes squeezed tightly in frustration.

 

_"-will have no recollection of you,"_

 

Brown eyes snapped wide open, breath stuttering to a halt as he quickly rose to his feet. He hadn't taken in his surroundings, but the dread quickly pooled in his system at the realization. He currently resided in his home, the same house prior to ever meeting Sigmund, prior to them being a couple- the home that was fit for a bachelor. 

 

The sleek modern design, the large expanse of glass windows from ceiling to floor, all of it only added onto the dawning horror that the Being's words rung true. He moved around the living room, something simple and devoid of any pictures- the air of hollow success was something he'd forgotten the feeling of and didn't want to remember anymore. He didn't want to be in his own home, _he shouldn't be here._

 

Pillows were thrown off the couch, cushions in disarray- nothing was left unturned as he searched for something important to him, something that would ground him to reality, to whether or not what had happened was instant or if he still had time. He wasn't sure what he'd do with it- warn Sigmund? Lay all his secrets bare? Apologize?

 

"Fuck, _c'mon_ ," he urged, voice hoarse from disuse and throat seizing in fear. He needed to find it, needed to ground himself the only way he knew how.

 

He had stubbed his toe on the corner of the glass coffee table, the pain numbed compared to the incessant beating of his heart, the ache growing the longer he can't find it.

 

_(Where is it? Where is it? **Where** is it?!)_

 

He wasn't sure how long he'd taken, but as he continued his search, having gone upstairs to his room, the bedspread thrown haphazardly, clothing pulled off shelves and pillows thrown about, he felt hopeless. That kind of searching that one knows is futile but needs to keep looking anyway, to prove that he  _isn't_ hysterical, that one was in control of everything and merely micromanaging.

 

 

The attempt to soothe the sea of nausea and anxiety just a hairsbreadth away from surfacing.

 

 

 

But when an hour passed, the  _tick tick tick_ of the analog clock loud and oppressive to his ears, the flurry of emotions he'd tried to keep to himself broke free. Manic and gut-wrenching screams, frantic clawing at his skin- some purchase of  _humanity_ , not immortals not Gods, not Celestial  _fucking beings come down to ruin what he has!_ Angry tears ran down his face but he didn't dwell on them,  _couldn't_ dwell on them because he was still searching. 

 

In blind panic, he dropped to his knees and reached under his bed, hands clutching onto the lid of a medium sized box. He didn't move with the usual grace he was known to have, everything was wild, rationality thrown out the window, chest heaving as he ~~prayed-~~

 

**'Do not pray to those that have caused us pain, child!'**

 

-pleaded listlessly, that what he was searching for was within the box. The static white noise had grown louder, no longer a hum but similar to the heavy beating of a humming bird's wings, the sound only increased the sense of impending fear and dread. He couldn't take anymore, he felt himself vibrating with too many emotions and not enough outlets. A coppery-iron danced on his tongue as he absently realized he had bit it harshly. 

 

 _'Choke on the blood. Death by exsanguination, a valiant way to go,'_ the man crooned harshly. 

 

(He's right. He's right. He's right.) 

 

 

His fingers felt cold, numb and clammy, the constant tremor visible and increased twofold. His eyes were wide, staring down into his lap at the box that rested on him. Arturo stared down at what should have been there, the scrawl of writing, the black and white photo film-  _different fucking pictures_ , all over the expanse of  _three fucking years_ should be there. There should be small little collections and trinkets of the time the two had shared together-

 

 

_**He** should  **be** here!_

 

 

 

But he wasn't.

 

 

 

The pictures weren't either.

 

 

 

Nor were the engagement rings.

 

 

 

All of it gone.

 

 

**_Anathema Sit. Anathema Sit._ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

Latin. Directly translated-  _Let him be._

 

Arturo laughed bitterly, eyes rimmed red and puffy from crying, but he didn't care. He had emotionlessly found one of the many books on his shelf, placing it on the counter to skim through some of its pages. If they were to _let him be_ then he would not have been in this mess.

 

It could've gone two ways.

 

He would've died years ago. Would simply stabbed himself in the chest, or some brutal attempt at it, only to bleed out and die. But it'd be over with.

 

Or, he would've had Sigmund. Then when he died to whatever they may wanted, 'til judgement day comes, he'd be condemned to Hell. That he knew for sure- his soul wasn't worthy.

 

**'They are not worthy of us,'**

 

Years back he would've frowned at the possibility of eternal damnation, but now- compared to the greater stakes, he'd gladly prefer the embrace of whatever method Lucifer would've given him. Strip his flesh, submerge him in frozen waters for his envy, let strong winds whip his body to and fro- anything. He does not want Sigmund's fate to rest in the hands of himself, he wasn't a good person. He was too reckless.

 

Anathema, in a Christian sense, it was the excommunication from the religious faith- no longer able to receive God or anything revolving him and his practices. One would be shunned, ridiculed and isolated from the community. To condemn an  _untruth_ , to be cursed onto this type of faith. This was from what he'd gathered in his frantic haze- needing to do  _something_ to kill the time, to cool down.

 

So, it would become  _Let him be Anathema._

 

_Let him be cursed- excommunicated, a disgrace._

 

 

"Like I don't already feel that way," he murmured to himself, his voice breaking the silence of the room. Brown eyes looked up, taking note of the utter chaos everything was in, he hadn't decided to clean it- wanted it all to burn, if he were quite honest with himself. There was no point-

 

 _'What are you doing?'_ the child asked, tone accusatory.

 

That had been increasing also, the voices. They'd become second nature to him, he didn't ignore them as often as he should. Knew they weren't real. Knew it was a new wave of unhealthy coping in the situation he was casted into- but he indulged them anyways. He was spiralling, he knew this but he didn't dwell on it. He didn't let all of them consume his thoughts though, ignored the more temperamental ones- the urges and vehement words spat.

 

 _I'm translating_ , he thought absentmindedly, hands folded on the counter, eyes reading and re-reading the same line of text. He knew he wasn't focusing on its content, too invested in what they're saying- allowed the voices to run with slackened leash. 

 

(Not good. Not good. Don't indulge them. They aren't real. Listen to your own head.)

 

**_'The soul might've been wiped, child, but the body- the body is still available. Go now-'_ **

 

(Not real. Not real. They'll lead you astray.)

 

 _'Like the Gods have? No,'_ the woman said sharply.

 

 _'Go to him.'_ the child interrupted.

 

 

 _ **'**_ _ **Go and seek repentance through fellowship** **. May his company bring forth your reverence and lighten the weight of your sins'**_ the prophet insisted, oddly comforting.

 

 

(Not healthy. Not healthy. You're relapsing.)

 

He didn't care, he needed to make something clear- if he was right, then that means he might have some solace- some how.

 

  _You're going to ruin it all, You're an impulsive fool. This will not help either one of you'_ , the man- for once had not wished ill-intent towards Arturo. He couldn't deny that it may be right, this may only hurt him in the long run, ruin what was given to him.

 

But he knew one thing, just as much as the chorus that prattled on in his head:

 

He was impulsive.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He had become friends with Sigmund.

 

For the first couple months, it had hurt- the familiar redhead with his brilliant smile and teasing gaze. His quirkiness and excitement when faced with inspiration or a topic of discussion he enjoyed. The brunet had realized then, that the wrath of the Gods was real- as real as the sun that kissed his skin, as real as the shutter sound of each picture taken by Sigmund.

 

_(Not of him. Not of him.)_

 

Realized that he could befriend the man, sure, but be limited in his affection- no casual and tender touches. No private jokes shared between the two of them, there was no contact that expressed the feeling of love, the feeling that they were made for each other.

 

It was all cordial. Professional and reserved. Kept at arms length.

 

It fucking hurt.

 

But he still would meet up with him. Still would tag along on his walks finding another subject for his photographs- would hear him explain the concept of his project. Arturo had almost slipped up, given himself away, when he had told Sigmund the name of the project. He had to bite his tongue midway through, stave off the flood of emotions, the yearning for his arms around his form, the love lights in his eyes as he watched the brunet and moved him in a specific angle to be taken with his best side.

 

_"They're all your best side, especially naked. But I want you at your finest here, Art."_

 

The blasted nickname, the same one his father had used on him when he'd run his hand over his arm, a little too tenderly and a little too direct with its intent, it didn't make Arturo seize up in fear. It made him acknowledge the new meaning and situations it can be used in. But...that was in a past that he no longer had the right to.

 

Sigmund had given him his number-

 

(You didn't have it before. You didn't have it before. No, no, no.)

 

-and the two would talk all hours through the night, the brunet speaking of his occupation, how he loved it-  _ ~~he loved Sigmund~~ -_ and how it's never a dull moment-  _ ~~he can barely stay there the whole day~~. _ Then he'd listen for hours on end to the the redhead talk about his day, the things he'd seen and the places he wanted to go to, recounting facts about Bermuda, Australia or Russia.

 

~~_"I wanna go to Somerset Village, let's go together!"_ ~~

 

~~_"I wanna watch you surrounded by paintings in Melbourne, you have the most wonderful look when you're deep in thought"_ ~~

 

~~_"You'd look handsome wearing a big fluffy coat in Moscow"_ ~~

 

 All the time, with a heavy heart, he'd listen on- listen to how Sigmund had planned on going with a group of friends, _they travel together often_ , and how he wanted to move around. Maybe his freelance photography can be noticed by some big league art snob, he would tease over the phone. The laugh in his ears warm and intimate as Arturo laid on his bed, eyes closed, listened to the voice of his  ~~lover~~ friend.

 

_"What about you?"_

 

The brunet's voice was low, "What about me?"

 

The other line was silent, Arturo didn't mind- any time he got with the other, he would cherish dearly. Eventually he heard a quiet, " _What do you plan on doing? In the future. Tomorrow. Years down the road."_

 

The brunet hummed, hand coming to rest on his abdomen, fingers gripping onto the fabric of his loose shirt, "Keep to myself, focus on...balance maybe."

 

There was a snort and the brunet could almost see the other roll his eyes,  _"Sounds ominous. You seem like you got all your shit in order though, Arturo."_ He could easily pick up on the nervous tick the other adopted whenever speaking of the future. The way he bit his lip, eyes downcast and ignoring the outside world as he thought about it all.

 

"We all have a purpose, that's what Gods have prattled on about, right?" His own voice sounded so..bare to his own ears. Hollow and depleted, forced to keep the choked back emotions from spilling. Forced to keep his adoration silenced and keep this  _friend_ happy, to be pining for someone he had before but no longer- it was a different type of ache. Earlier in this new situation, he would've wanted his memories removed as well but- he refused to let them take away his good thing. 

 

(Not yours. not yours. He isn't yours anymore.)

 

So instead, he carried the memories of a lover and the current ones of a friend.

 

 _"Yeah, that's what they say anyways. Everyone has some purpose they're supposed to figure out,"_ Sigmund muttered, voice a quiet whisper over the phone.  _"Where are you going with this?"_ he asked skeptically, afraid of what the brunet might be thinking.

 

It's a low-blow, using what he'd known of Sigmund to prolong conversation, to get even a small slice of Sigmund, the lover- not Sigmund the friend. 

 

 _'Don't force this one into that situation, you don't want him to be the ghost of what he was. Lest he'll die,'_ the child warned.

 

He knew this, but with how often the redhead's anxieties flared up over his purpose, an existential ordeal, Arturo considered the question as well. If not to try and ease the other from his thoughts, to at least indulge him in wondering it with someone rather than it being alone.

 

His eyes were still closed, an attempt to imagine the other laying next to him, that they were in a heap of tangled limbs and mouths so close to each other, they only needed to murmur. He wanted to feel the body heat of the other, ignored how cold it was on the bed he laid upon, ignored the silence of the room- when there should be quiet music playing in the background.

 

_"Arturo?"_

 

"I'm here," he confirmed before sighing, "I dunno what my purpose is," was all he said, voice light.

 

Was it to design homes and buildings for people?

 

~~_To ruin your future?_ ~~

 

 

To be stay in the city he'd grown up in all his life?

 

~~_To wallow in sorrow and then hide it from you?_ ~~

 

Or to be a friend to someone?

 

_~~Or to be a friend to someone~~?_

 

 _"Well, maybe. I mean, you bring happiness to people with the work you've done- I've seen them. Maybe you don't have to stay in the city anymore- go travel when you're ready. And..."_  

 

The pause made Arturo blink his eyes open, brow dipped in curiosity- wondered why he paused.

 

_"I feel the same. I'm not sure if I was put on earth to take fucking pictures of people or to...waste away. We're both thirty-five and I've accomplished nothing. With you..people will remember your work, it stands today! But with me? Nobody will remember me when I die-"_

 

" _Don't_ say that." his voice was harsh, firm and cold. Arturo hadn't realized when he sat up, but now that he was, he felt his heart beating rapidly, felt how cold his fingers were and felt how empty the room was. He didn't want the other thinking of the  _what-ifs_ , didn't want the other to indulge that idea-

 

 ~~ _It might happen._~~  

 

No, it's not going to happen. He was going to die, all people were, but he has so much ahead of him still. The grip on his phone tightened, trying desperately to control his breathing and not have the fear he felt evident in the words he spoke.

 

"I will remember you, Sigmund. You may not know your purpose,  _fuck_ nobody does! These fucking _Beings_ that have put us on this fucking Earth, have their own purpose set for us-  _they_ know why."

 

 **'That is correct, THEY do not have the best intent for us! They covert secrets of their own- refuse to indulge humanity in their knowledge! They are nothing but** ** _Liars_** **,'** the prophet urged, but Arturo tried his hardest to ignore him, he didn't need his auditory hallucinations to say anything. He had enough opinion on the matter as is with the situation they had put Sigmund and himself in. 

 

(Hw dare they. How dare they. How dare they.)

 

"We _don't_ , we're fumbling fleshy babies that do whatever we need to to survive, to grow and enjoy this shit hole. No matter  _what_ your purpose is, I promise you," he breathed, " **I will remember you."**

 

_'Clotho was the one who spun it.'_

 

He knew he was crying before he felt the tears run down his face. He grit his teeth, trying so hard to hold back Pent up emotions, he was his friend- he had no reason to cry, these were questions that anybody would ask. They were companions that had impossible questions with impossible answers. The thought of one of them not being remembered is  _normal_ , the way he wanted to reach out to him to comfort, shower the redhead in soft kisses along his jaw and lips, his cheek and forehead was less than ideal for friends that had recently  _met._

 

 _' _Lachesis_  was the one that distributed it.'_ 

 

There was a breathy chuckle that rang through his ear,  _"I hope you do 'cos I think it'd be easy for me to remember you."_

 

It. It shouldn't be this spot-on. How his words hurt Arturo- a knife straight through the heart and twisting. It would be easy for him to remember, to fall in love with the brunet all over again and then they would have what they had prior- maybe even better. He'd be a better person, learned from his mistakes and try wholeheartedly. But to remember is to-

 

_No, focus on his voice._

 

The teasing tone calmed his heart slightly, he focused on that- had no place to bring the conversation to darker parts if the other wish to change the subject, "How so?"

 

A hum.  _"You're hard to miss- you have this impassive face, like you hide everything from the world. But then there's your eyes- they're just so expressive- you don't need to voice how you feel when you got your eyes to do it for you."_

 

_(It's dangerous. No no no.)_

 

Arturo held his breath, shook his head and let out a sigh, easing himself down to lay on his side, curled into himself, "If only I knew how to hide it properly," he murmured, but with the voice as confident as the architect and not a man with a curse scribed onto his forearm, he smiled, "Then I'd be great at poker."

 

' _Atropos was the one that severed it'._

 

 

The pleasant laugh he'd received for his  ~~deflection~~ joke, made the grip around his heart slacken just a little bit more.

* * *

 

 

A year. A whole year had passed and Arturo had successfully pushed his affection to the back of his mind- made sure to be the  _friend_ the freelance photographer wanted and not the  _fiancé_  he was.

 

Not once had Sigmund taken his picture and a part of him wondered why, but refused to ask, to tag along on the adventures the redhead had decided to go on. Some times it was to sketchy back alleys, asking some men and women for a photograph that surprised Arturo in seeing them happily agree with the man. Other times it'd be to the beach, the bridge or down the street. 

 

The pair had walked all about different places- Sigmund talking for the both of them, Arturo keeping his emotions and thoughts in check as he kept him friendly company- for him to have someone to talk to.

 

He had forgotten that the other was oddly perceptive, and he'd slipped up, but the instance had allowed him to fix the mistake he had made. To prevent it in the future.

 

(No future without him. No future without him.)

 

He had helped the other set up his tripod, assembling and heightening its legs to acquire the proper shot that was to be taken of a woman sitting in a tree, one slender leg dangling freely while she tucked the other close to her chest. The woman had shifted from the branch, having saw a bird's nest and wanting to move away from it. However, the movement caused her to stumble a bit, Arturo's arms quickly raised high in case she fell- unsure if he'd even properly catch her or just let the woman fall atop him.

 

With the gentle reassurance of the woman that she was fine, he looked down and saw green eyes watching his forearm, before looking directly into brown. His light cardigan had rolled up, the markings on his wrist only slightly visible and it made Arturo's stomach flop in anticipation, in fear. But like he'd always known of the other, he looked away, a smile back on his face as he regarded the woman, directing where she should move and what he planned on doing.

 

Arturo stood still, rolling his disgruntled sleeve to cover his arm, wondering if he had seen it- and shamelessly, he didn't care if the other did. Let him think whatever he wanted, so long as Arturo was in his mind- albeit under concern, it made him smile ruefully.

 

 _'Selfish spawn, don't ruin this,_ ' the woman urged. He couldn't agree more with the words.

 

 

 

He was being selfish.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**'Abandon all hope ye who enter here', the inscription of the Gates of Hell. But fear not, for _we_ are not going to be condemned to the eternal fires.'**

 

 _'You are losing,'_ child.

 

**'Abhor thy ignorance, abhor the bindings of virtues and vice. _We_  shall surmount all that constrains and enfeebles.  _We_ shall bring redemption to the sinners. We shall rupture the walls of the Divine and demand our grace.'**

 

 _'Death would be much better than this. He's going to know you,'_ man.

 

 **_'Demand the gods to step down, to fear the flesh and bone they had created in their image._ ** **_'_ **

 

 _'Cancerous! You must atone,'_ woman.

 

**_'For they have dangled it in front of our scarred and mutilated maws for too long, beasts among humanity was their ultimate desire, my Child!'_ **

 

 _'He's going to fall in love,'_ child.

 

**_'They should fear the monsters that have been created!'_ **

 

' _You will destroy him- and there's nothing that can be done about it,'_ man.

 

**_'For we are coming.'_ **

 

 _'We are doomed,'_ Arturo.

 

* * *

It's getting worse, the voices- specifically the prophet, as he called him. He's feeding on all his doubts and anger towards the Gods, he knows this, he had tried to contain it- to somehow tighten the leash that he had a hold of. But he'd let them talk too much, indulged them too far and now he needed to rebuild his resistance- to revert back to his stony interior and finally silence them. He wanted it all to stop, he needed to ground himself back to reality.

 

Everything he did was always too much or too little. This time, it was too much freedom.

 

Maybe the next will be too little care.

 

He had made himself busy, had decided to try and better himself. He had drained all his alcohols, thrown out the cigarette sticks and anything else he had been drawn to- the vices that made Arturo Fahlgren the mess of a man he was today.

* * *

  

 

"What does your wrist say?"

 

Arturo's eyes widened at the abrupt question, he turned his gaze to watch Sigmund as the other already looking at him. Sigmund sat on the stony steps of the park wherein Arturo had leaned on the railing.

 

"What?" he asked dumbly, mind completely short-circuiting.

 

(He saw it. He saw it.)

 

Sigmund rolled his eyes, hand inching towards his wrist-  _ ~~Anathema Sit~~_  - and tugged him closer, the sudden yank making Arturo stumble and had no choice but to sit next to the man. Neither one mentioned the way their shoulders pressed close together. Pale fingers rolled up the sleeve of his dark green henley shirt, the latin visible and for the first time, Arturo didn't know how to react.

 

Didn't know what the divinity had expected him to do.

 

(They're watching. They're testing. Testing. Testing)

 

He couldn't tell him, he had known this, but can he see the carved mark, see the elegance yet macabre meaning of the latin? He knew Sigmund understood and can speak a plentiful amount of languages- and a part of him didn't want it to be latin. Let him speak anything but-

 

"It's a cool tattoo," he murmured, as he looked down at the brunet's forearm.

 

Arturo watched it, as if new, and moved it back and forth, mind running rampant. He saw it as an engraved curse-  _that's what it was_ \- but, maybe to someone other than himself, it was some philosophical and deep quote. Something that had maybe stuck out to him, something that he'd explain as cool and that was all, no deeper meaning. No impending warning and no mark of the Gods' anger.

 

He sighed, shoulders hunching as he felt disappointment swell in his stomach. Maybe he'd wanted Sigmund to see the mark, wonder why he did that, if he was okay.

 

"Sigmund," he started, voice low.

 

The other made a sound of acknowledgement, finger tracing the last of the letters before he pulled away entirely. The tingle he had left on Arturo's skin felt pleasant and he welcomed it. To bring warmth to the frozen and clammy flesh of his. If the other were to ask he can always blame it on the Autumn winds, the chill, something that isn't the dread of his own actions.

 

"I've been meaning to tell you something."

 

(Don't do it. Don't do it. no no no.)

 

The other shifted in his seat, turned so that he could look directly at the brunet but his own brown eyes had stared listlessly at his lap. Hands tightening into fists as he urged himself to say what he  _should_ have said. The redhead was quiet and tentatively placed a hand atop Arturo's gently, as if he were a wild animal, one sudden movement would make him flee.

 

(You would. You would. You would.)

 

"What were you to do if someone you knew had a drinking and drug addiction?" he started, hating the hesitance in his voice, hating how he hadn't even said it was himself and instead chose the general route. To save face. To not see  _his_ face.

 

Sigmund hummed, quiet for too long, Arturo's anxiety only raising the longer the silence stretched on. He was about to take back the question, to get up and go home when he felt the hand laid atop his tighten in a reassuring hold, not linking their fingers but his heart flopped with the idea of him doing so. Yearned for him in anyway way that he can.

 

"I'd listen to them- to their story. I'd be there for them...try to help them."

 

( ~~No no no. You've done wrong. You've betrayed him. Shut up~~. Shut up. Shut  _up!_ )

 

"What if they hadn't spoken of it for quite some time?"

 

"Then I'd be hurt...but that'd be understandable. It's not something that can be said and expect things to go well. Maybe the person with the addiction becomes violent...or, just doesn't want it to be true because..." he paused, green eyes looking down, "Maybe it's because once it's said aloud- then it becomes true. There are no take-backs."

 

Arturo felt the lump in his throat.

 

_There are no take-backs._

 

And there never will be.

 

(Don't say it. Don't say it. Stop. Stop. Stop.)

 

The brunet nodded to himself, looked off to the trail that the steps led down to, his lips downturned as he murmured, "Yeah, you're right."

 

* * *

 

Arturo was torturing himself, by staying with the man of his dreams. The man who completed Arturo in every sense of the word. He was torturing himself and he wasn't sure he wanted to stop. He knew that he's being watched, that this is some sort of loophole from his retribution, but it had been a two years now. No other words or dreams sent to him from the Heavens above. No visions or voices- voices that aren't of his own, of the monsters within his mind.

 

 **'They sit and watch, Child. They wait with their fingers wrapped around our throat,'** the prophet butted in, voice sounding quiet this time.

 

 

As he stared up at the blue sky, the grass below his back cool to the touch and slightly damp from the morning dew, he realized that something will go up in flames, the low-burning fire will receive a spark, then burst into a quick  _snap_ , removing the remnants and leaving everything behind.

 

_Leaving him behind._

 

 

* * *

 

His paranoia flared up, he waited for the other shoe to drop- for things to be taken from him again. He had stopped reaching out to Sigmund for a month, tried to wrench himself free from the other man entirely, let him be the person he's capable of.

 

But it didn't work. It didn't help him. Static noise, humming bird wings beat frantically behind his ears. His head throbbed and he felt sick, felt dirtied and empty. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run away. He wanted to submerge himself in water and drown. He wanted too much and had become stagnant and scared.

 

He wanted to drink.

 

h\He wanted to numb his mind.

 

He wanted Sigmund.

 

He wanted retribution.

 

He wanted peace.

 

He wanted.

 

* * *

 

 

"Don't just leave like that!" Sigmund's eyes were frantic, his mouth downturned as he splayed his arms open, his whole body thrumming in anger, sadness and something else Arturo refused to acknowledge. He couldn't dwell on the look of hurt that was present on the other's face.

 

The brunet didn't say a word. Didn't know what to say that would both cause Sigmund to hurt less and to stop the forthcoming argument. 

 

So, he placed his hands behind his back, "You were fine prior to me being there. You got the focus that your work deserved, Sigmund." he intoned lamely, internally scrapping together the fragments of resolve he had, but the longer he stared- the more he wanted to crumble and apologize. Wanted to plead to the other that he needed to break off, they were both playing a dangerous game. 

 

He had gotten a small exhibit, had given Arturo a ticket with a dazzling smile and he couldn't help but agree to go, to see his photographs on display, attracting people within the city's square- an artist's convention.

 

(None of you. None of you. No photographs of you.)

 

Sigmund's eyes narrowed, "It didn't occur to you that I  _needed_ you there? That I invited my friends sure but  _you_ were my main focus?" He wrapped an arm around himself as he began to pace, bare feet padding silently on the wood of Arturo's living-room.

 

 _He needed you. He needed you._ You failed once more.

 

'It's too late' the child murmured.

 

Arturo let out a silent breath through his nose, "Sig-"

 

" _No!_ You just don't fucking get it, do you?  _You_ were the one that urged me to do this.  _You_ were the one that was there for me. Fuck, I was hoping  _you_ would be there for me when the exhibit happened! You're important to me! You've grounded me when shit was difficult and stressful and I needed you!" he covered his face with both hands, voice soft and muffled as he whispered,  _"You make me stronger."_

 

He couldn't hold back anymore, he knew he'd messed up. As much as Sigmund was a constant in his life, it seemed that the brunet had become one in his. It was similar to what his doctors had told him, to ween off the substances- small dozes to ensure the body can handle the small bouts of sobriety. Arturo was the drug- the poison- that Sigmund had gotten used to and to cut off the supply entirely? It would only cause withdrawals.

 

_(Were we toxic back then?)_

 

 ** _'No, child. We were the poison that needed to be purified. Through your lover's tears, we were cleansed.'_** the prophet started.

 

 _'No. The two of you were healthy- still healthy, even more so now that you're finally fixing the flaws you should've,_ ' the child explained- the most words he's heard from it. 

 

He had wrapped his arms around Sigmund's form, the redhead shaking violently in his hold, biting his lip to silence the choked off sobs that are threatening to spill. His face was still covered by his hands and it took everything within him to not pull them away, to not kiss away the angry tears that spilled down his cheeks.

 

Instead, he rubbed his back in soothing circles, made silent suggestions of making it up to him, apologizing for not going- apologizing for being who he was.

 

Apologizing for the things that he'd caused.

 

* * *

  

He wasn't one to become overly emotional during sex, he'd found in odd in a sense. He had passionate sex, yes- but the tears that ran down his own cheeks, the redhead's face pressed to his throat and moving to trail along the tear streaks? That was new. The gravity of the situation, of what happened- hitting him in the gut.

 

The other had paused his ministrations but Arturo reassured the other with quiet words, trying hard to soothe his worries. He wasn't crying out of sadness, but because he felt good. He felt that things were _right_ for once. The redhead's smile was so sweet as he regarded him, agreeing with Arturo wholeheartedly.

 

Sigmund had showered him with kisses, never once on his lips, he'd left marks on his chest, his collar bone. he'd inched lower and lower, placing hickeys on his tanned skin. 

 

The brunet choked back the sobs, had assured the other he was fine- that he shouldn't be that focused on him.  _Fuck me, do whatever you want- just don't be kind._ The other's thrusts slow and deliberate, aiming for a spot he knew well enough, Arturo didn't want slow. He didn't want passion. He wanted what he'd done to the faceless strangers prior to ever meeting the redhead. He wanted fast and rough, quick and meaningless.

 

_Fuck the frustration out of him._

 

_Fuck him out of hate._

 

_Fuck him out of anything **but** love. Please._

 

And yet, no matter what he'd cajoled out of the other, the one focused os much on painstakingly making him writhe and moan. On making him call out the other's name in such bliss, the heat in his stomach pooling- tension building until he couldn't take it. The seductive smile on the redhead's lips as he nipped at Arturo's ear.

 

The markings on his forearm seemed to have burned, as if a spark had been lighted and it's warming up to uncomfortable temperatures. It was electricity and fire- a dangerous mix and a dangerous game the two of them played.

 

 _"I'll take care of you,"_ he'd promised this. He made this promise.

 

He came with a drawn-out moan, the tears spilling all anew.

 

(Don't. Don't. Don't.)

 

_(Please.)_

 

* * *

 

He was more attune to his actions than he'd ever been. He had spent days on end drawing and re-drawing a diagram, brainstorming, an attempt at sorting out how bad he'd fucked up.  _Where he'd fucked up._

 

He should've never gone back to Sigmund. He had sealed the fate of the man. The bow had been pulled taut and now the arrow zipped through the air.

 

It went entirely off the mark. Or rather, it  _did_ hit its mark. The arrow that sped through the air, tip sharp and ready had been hitting the outer circles of the target- two points and five-points. But it seemed he should've known eventually, the right trajectory, the right form and enough wishful thinking would make him hit the mark.

 

 Sigmund had led him to a botanical garden, the season of Autumn turned everything mythical- as if they had stepped through a door into a different realm altogether. Colours blended beautifully, reds to oranges, yellows to browns- the leaves that crunched under their feet was the only sound between them. There was the distant chirping of birds and the sounds of water running freely.

 

_No. No. No._

 

Sigmund's camera hung from his neck as he urged Arturo to hurry up- he had something to show the brunet. Arturo had only hummed, lengthening his strides to catch up to the excited redhead, his hands stuffed in his pockets in a sad attempt to stifle the urge to hold onto the ivory fingers- fingers of a person who tinkers with things- anything they'd get their hands on.

 

Eventually when Sigmund waved his hand in a grand, sweeping gesture to the area in front of him, Arturo's eyes widened- nausea building quickly.

 

_Pavillon gazebo, vines encompassing the beams._

 

_Water surround the shelter, water lilies danced on its surface._

 

_Trees enclosing the space to make it private._

 

 **'No, that's...that wasn't-'** the prophet faltered, the first stumble he'd ever thought to hear.

_'You need to leave,'_ the man no longer threatened or offered ways of suicide. 

 

 _'It's too late,'_ the child dictated firmly, most loudest voice above all of them. 

 

 

Sigmund threw him a triumphant smile as he leaned on the railings of the gazebo, the wall of trees around the area mesmerizing and private. The same place he'd taken Arturo the first time. The same place that they'd grown to know each other. With shaky steps, Arturo stood next to him, silent and his entire body on edge- his heart rate increased as he tried to fend off the onslaught of memories in his head. Of the Sigmund that become his lover. Of the current Sigmund. The onslaught of adoration he'd tried for  _years_ to stave off and hide.

 

"Take a look," Sigmund's voice was quiet, the two of them pressed shoulder to shoulder. Arturo had no words to say, so he decided to follow the command.

 

He couldn't focus on one thing for long, mind running frantic- no longer was it the voices in his head but his own thoughts. His own fears and worries, his own hate and love. His own regrets and no remorse.

 

He moved to sit on the bench directly under the roof of the intricate gazebo, his face being hidden from the sun's rays- no need to narrow them in an attempt to see. He pulled one of his legs closer to his chest, the other scuffing the floor as he swayed it back and forth slowly. He hummed, the side of his cheek resting on his forearm as he shut his eyes. The gazebo that started it all, the garden that had so much memories he hadn't wanted to open- seemed to run freely. As free as the butterflies that flapped by him, as free as the frogs orchestrating their croaked melodies, hidden in their log homes.

 

As free as he had hoped to be. 

 

As free as Sigmund was  _supposed_ to be.

 

This time, there was a flash.

 

He hadn't turned his head, only cracking open one eye and watching the freelance photographer. He had bitten his lip in an attempt to curb the desire to cry all over again. He'd been doing that too much. As he reigned it all in, he lifted his head as a dopey smile graced his face-

 

(Insincere. Insincere)

 

 

-about to question the other until he finally got a look at him.

 

Green pools that were his eyes shined with tears, a steady and heavy flow running down his face, their path uncoordinated as they ran their course. His cheeks grew red, mouth opened and closed, seeking to form some sort of words. Arturo quickly made his way to the other, he placed his hands on the other's shoulder and ran them down to his forearms, silently trying to calm him down.

 

"Sigmund what-"

 

"I- _Y_ _ou-_ ," the camera within his hands shook, stuttered breaths escaping his lips before he eased the camera back to its resting position around his neck. The brunet's brows furrowed, unsure what the other had tried to say but felt awkward as pale hands held onto either side of his face. Green stared intensely into brown and Arturo was unsure of the intent the other wanted. He was used to the antics of the other- the need for contact or the teased remarks- he had willed himself to get used to it. 

 

Arms had wrapped around his neck, and Arturo froze as he heard the shaky and hushed voice by his ear,  _"We were going to get married here."_

 

_(Don't. Please. No. No. No)_

 

Sigmund pulled away, his whole face puffy and wet but the watery smile he sent Arturo's way had broken his heart. The recollection in green eyes something he had waited for such a long time- had endured the slightly guarded way they'd watch him- keep their emotion in check when around the brunet. 

 

But-

 

but the eyes in front of him, the arms that had wrapped around his neck and the most beautiful smile he could ever be graced with in front of him. He felt cold inside.

 

 

 ** _'_ He remembered, Lost Lamb. Anathema Sit,'**the prophet sounded...lost. Words murmured rather than booming around in his skull.

 

' _Wounded man, it is too late,'_ the woman whispered, her usually heated words, dejected.

 

 _'Love was found at the cost of a life,_ ' the man muttered, tone harsh but not directed at Arturo.

 _' **Anathema Sit** ' _echoed the child.

 

Arturo shook his head, willing away the love Sigmund had harboured to disappear, for the man to somehow forget again- he'd be willing to have the man of his life forget of the brunet so long as he lived! He didn't want this- he had tried to stay away, he had tried to stay close! They had found each other, had kept things careful between them. He can't let him go like this.

 

That's what he thought.

 

He gave a shaky smile as he thumbed away the tears that ran down his cheeks, pressed their foreheads together as he murmured,  _"We were._ It would've been here. we-we could've-" he choked on the words, throat suddenly tight, "We would've gone somewhere  _together_ ," he rushed out, his own hands shaking.  

 

 **'Child, you must tell him. If- If this is the way the _vile_ Gods wish for us to go, then so be it. But  _damn_ them of their graces. They do not deserve to be seen as forgiving whilst they take the life of an innocent as  _punishment for the condemned,_ ' **the prophet spoke with anger boiling in his words, and Arturo was never one to learn from his mistakes.

 

He indulged in the prophet.

 

"Sigmund, listen to me," his voice was hoarse, but as he pulled away the redhead kept his undivided attention on the brunet. With a deep breath, he told the other of his past, words spilt from his mouth as if he heaved out his sins, the black bile in his stomach the weight of everything he was. He told him of his father, of his addictions, of his insecurities and of what he'd done. 

 

He had nervously shown him the carving on his forearm, explained the meaning- explained to him what were to happen if he'd remembered.

 

(What will happen. What will happen.)

 

Arturo had apologized for not staying away, for condemning the other to a horrid fate. But as soon as he heard the quiet laughter escape the other's mouth he looked up, peered into familiar green eyes in bewilderment as he saw the smile on his face, the lack of sickness and disgust, the lack of anger and regrets.

 

Just a tender and loving smile.

 

Sigmund ran his hands over his eyes, wiping away the tears before he pressed a chaste kiss to Arturo's lips. "Remember what you said to me here?" He huffed out another laugh, "We're our own puppet and master or something? Maybe my fate was to be yours- to be there for you no matter the circumstances, Arturo."

 

(No. no. Stop. Stop. Stop.)

 

He shook his head, unable to speak but the hand that ran down his jaw affectionately, the way he'd cupped the side of his face as he murmured, "I love you, and I've always loved you. Divinity cannot stop that from happening, as corny as it sounds, I want to think my purpose in life was to be here for you, in anyway you'll have me."

 

With those words, the cry that Arturo had let out was one full of sorrow and anger. Of love for Sigmund and for the future they would've had. They had basked in each other's warmth as they shared a kiss, hands tangled in the other's hair- and Arturo pulled back, had whispered his love of him in return. Of how wonderful the redhead was, of how sorry he was.

 

 _Of how so fucking sorry he was._  

 

 

* * *

 

Fear truly settles in one's bones once they acknowledge the gravity of any dire situation.

 

To acknowledge that is how their life is, nothing can be done to change the course on the route it's forced to take. The winds have violently shaken the sails and the wheel began to weaken in its durability-jammed in one course of action. One can no longer direct themselves free from the whirlpool that laid ahead. It's no use, there's no other way to steer away from the torment, one will watch in morbid fascination, the inevitable destruction that they are forced into. The envisioned downfall that will crush one's bones and ship, the bubble that one immersed themselves in has bursted- only to deal with the aftermath- a shipwreck and the missing remains of the crew.

 

But the Captain always goes down with their ship, to accept that they will die for the blood, sweat and tears that they had spilt for it. The Captain would rather lose their own life than have their beauty sunk, to ensure his crew is safe, they do not deserve the same fate as the Captain. They will die for the ship, the same vessel that is built on a precarious foundation of impulsivity and distant dreams, had fought tooth and nail to put it together. The ship is their happiness- the place that held their aspiration, their fears and the symbol of their progress. For every inch of the sea they transgress, is progression in personal development.

 

On the ship, one is free. 

 

 

_He was Captain-_

 

His ship wasn't massive, nor was it grand in its valour. His ship was efficient in getting him place, its efficiency and speed something he pride himself in. He was able to get out of situations easily and attempt to leave behind what he was. He had a steady network of crew members, from doctors to the remaining familial bonds that took the effort to care still, wanted to travel with him on his adventures- back then, he was reluctant to let them. He didn't want them to know why he had decided to traverse the seas, to leave everything he hd behind and start new. He had done it out of cowardice, not what they had told him, of making  _a healthy change_. But as Captain, he had a responsibility

 

_-and he shall die._

 

The whirlpool set in front of him was large, it had grown since the last time he'd almost seen it. Its waters a deep blue, almost close to the deepest parts of the ocean. Foam had been formed, debris from other ships cycled endlessly within this whirlpool- reminded him that his time was approaching at a dangerous rate. His ship was stuck, the steering wheel, had long lost its usefulness, it had decided to abruptly break entirely, snap off the handle. His only course of action was to watch as his ship will soon sink below the dark seas of torment and fear, of darkness. He will suffocate and drown, so long as his ship will not be alone, so long as everyone else has the chance to break free from his self-destructive path.

 

 _'You chose this.'_ the woman sounded satisfied.

 

This, as Captain, he swears unto thee.

 

So he had helped them leave, gotten his crew to take the extra boats, much smaller in comparison, but effective nonetheless. Some went without a fight, others he had to let out his aggression- no longer had he been the impassive and recluse Captain, but spat venom in his words to push them away. As those members spoke words of hatred and vehemence, he kept his face impassive, the ache in his heart reminding him that it's for the best. 

 

_It's for the best, it's always for the best with you._

 

So with a calm facade, the winds whipping past him as if angered, he watched them go- let good people live on, go to their families and forget him. Forget the rouble they had endured for even putting faith into a Captain such as himself. The closer the raging storm got, the more frantic his heart beat, the more he became upset and the more he resigned. There was no point, the ship needed maintenance for the longest time, he had failed that aspect as captain. Had failed to take into account the state of everything before setting out to sea, this was his consequence.

 

 _'They abandoned us,'_  the child murmured mournfully.

 

 _'They find you disgusting, a burden, annoying to look at,'_ the woman hissed.

 

 

As the ship began to sway violently, the winds rushing past him, the dreaded  _crack_ being heard from the wood, he felt a new wave tranquility wash over him entirely. He knows its the feeling of having lost  _all hope_ , this was his course of action now, there was no way out of it.

 

But everything felt orchestrated.

 

As if, through the destruction around him, it had all slowed down- cinematic and expressive. He stood on the forecastle deck- eyes a dull brown as he stared ahead, winds whipping past his face, the salt water spraying his body and collecting on the deck. Either it all breaks apart, or he sinks- the weight of-

 

  ~~ **His sins**~~

-the water, too much for-

 

  ** ~~Sigmund.~~**

 

 

-his ship to handle. Clasped hands stayed behind back, he watches the impending ruin in front his eyes with an air of finality, of resignation and acceptance. He had bitten more than he can chew, had expected the seas to be forgiving once he asked for its guide and forgiveness. For some sort of influence to help his journey. He had ruined it, his own greed had gotten to him, infected his judgement. The Captain's desire for reaching the other parts of the world, the new place- for him to be a new man- had in turn, destroyed ~~someone~~  something valuable to him.  This wasn't how he expected things to be, how can he? He had wanted everything perfect, something a step up from his starting point, but in the deepest part of his mind, he knew it wouldn't be the case.

 

This was how it was supposed to be, it was written by the Gods. 

 

 

But...he wasn't a good Captain.

 

 

 He wasn't ready.

 

 

He didn't want this, a part of him found it unfair that out of all the other people, the ones with same situations such as himself, why was  _he_ being punished? Why had his punishment expand to others he cared for? Let  _him_ be the one to be disciplined, but the other ones shouldn't be included. He will take the blunt of all his actions, he fucked up, he  _knows_ he has- but  _please, don't take him away! He has nothing to do with this, please, I beg of you!_

 

 **'Gods are vengeful _things_ ,' **the prophet spat angrily,  **'They create and destroy and expect us to bend over and _take it. We could've been God himself, Zeus even! Yet what stopped you, child. That anger you feel now, could've saved us from ruin.'_**

 

 Before he had set sail, he had expected all the skies to be grey, storms a looming threat  overhead and no visibility from the murkiest of waters. That was the type fo things he was used to, had expected nothing else to be different once he set sail. But then, he was wrong- he had gotten a glimpse of blue skies, calm waters and the sun shining down on his scarred skin. He had experienced something he  _shouldn't_ have and he'd gotten drunk off of it.

 

_Nothing new._

 

He had somehow escaped the storm he'd already reside in and found the calm. It was all to the thanks of-

 

~~**His freelance photographer.** ~~

 

-his crew, the steady stream to hoist the sails and push him away from that dark place. But it seemed that was only his reprieve, for he ended up in uncharted darkness, a new assault on emotions and he was unsure of what to do. He may have let everyone go, pushed them away to live on without him,  _there's no way he can live through this_ , and he now stood before his own downfall. But a part of him, a growing and incessant part of him he'd tried to kill, preferred the familiar downward spiral, than this new sense of melancholy and emptiness. 

 

At least in his old place, he knew nothing of what  _could_ have been, could've been ignorant.

 

 

He turned around, turned to see his Quarter Master, the second in authority, standing to the right of him, green eyes watching the disaster ahead, red, curly hair moving wildly form the strong winds.  His stance was lax, as if this didn't bother him, as if he'd accepted his fate.

 

_'Do you believe in fate?'_

 

The Quarter Master didn't look at the Captain for a while, only what was in front of him, something only _he_ can see, the way his eyes darted slowly, from point to point. The Captain saw the change in his eyes. Those same green eyes that were expressive and tantalizing, often times wide in awe had hardened into steel, aged with war and begrudging acceptance Green slowly shifted to peer into the dull browns of the Captain.

 

_It hurts-_

 

A small and bitter smile formed on his lips, a nod of his head.

 

 _-too much_.

 

No, no no. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to be here, _why is he here_ _?_  Why hadn't he jumped ship, give himself the chance to live? He can't throw away his life for something unstable in the first place, for a Captain that had an unreliable mind and too many demons in the closet. A closet that had been on the seams of overflowing, he hid these from his Quarter Master- when the other had done nothing but been honest with him. He doesn't deserve to die, he had places he wanted to go, to  _be_ something!

 

Brown eyes broke away to watch his feet, something forcing him to act. He saw the tendrils that wrapped around his Quarter Master's ankles, thick and almost similar to sludge, it had dug its roots int the deck, pulsating and moving as if it breathed. He watched as the same tendrils were wrapped around his own ankles, the grip suddenly making itself known as he felt rooted. No other way to move, he cannot escape.

 

 

His Quarter Master cannot escape.

 

 

 

_"I had sworn loyalty to you, Captain. Even through death, I shall stay by your side."_

 

 

_It hurts-_

 

 

He wasn't ready.

 

 

_-too much._

 

He wasn't ready, he cannot accept this fate. His ship was beautiful, had so much potential, had the chance of a lifetime and had the crew that cared for him. He wanted the best for his crew, wanted the best for his Quarter Master. He won't hold a grudge against those that dove, they had every reason to bail- he had lost his way, the hat that adorned his head began to weigh him down, heavier than the doubt in his thoughts. He had failed and this was the consequence. He had allowed everyone the chance to  _leave_.

 

 

 **'A sacrifice must be made, boy. When times comes to pass, we shall ascend.'** was the gravelly reply of the prophet.

 

_It hurts._

 

 

But as the water rushed in- the ship finally at the whirlpool's centre, it consumed the ship as if nothing, tore apart its skin to rip and eat the insides, to eviscerate the body, and allowed the blackened guts to finally spill- for the world to have its way with the rotten body of the Captain. He didn't want to remember how those green eyes shone with unshed tears but refused to let them fall. he didn't want to remember the words his Quarter Master had told him,  he  _didn't_ **deserve** loyalty. His second in command merited a better fate than this, he shouldn't have been a casualty! 

 

 **'It's for the best,'** murmured the prophet.

 

He had bitten more than he can chew. He had a taste of Eden from his saviour and he wanted more, the sinner's tongue had been given waters unimaginable, clinging onto the source for dear life, unaware of his own poisoning.

 

 _'He's made for you,'_ marvelled the man.

 

_It hurts-_

 

He didn't deserve that second chance, if it meant the cost of losing the one that completed him. That guided him through the murkiest of waters, that took the time and effort to deal with a standoffish and crude Captain! he didn't-  ** _Sigmund_** didn't ** _deserve_** to be so caring **-**

 

 _'He's gone,'_ mourned the child.

 

_-too fucking much._

 

-to the point of his own demise.

 

* * *

 

A man turned forty.

 

Arturo Fahlgren stands along the grassy fields, brown eyes downcast as he hummed to himself.

 

His steps are steady as he reads the engravings of each stone he's passing. The wind constant as the tall grass moved and dipped as if a wave of green. The type of green he'd used to get lost in, had be captivated and was often left in awe. The wisps of clouds sailing by as the evening twilight sky grew darker, its rich blues and wisps of purples and greens painted the sky above him. The sun dipping below the horizon and making the familiar tone of crickets sing their song, their serenade as the sun bids Arturo goodnight.

 

He continues his trek, the red roses and white lilies resting in his hands in an easy grip.

 

When he'd made his way to the headstone beyond the others, just out of reach from low hanging branches of the weeping willow tree, he kneeled down. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he focused on the calming shift of leaves swaying- of the crickets and of the sounds outside of his head. There was no white noise, nor voices chattering-it was just him and the headstone he'd taken care of- had spent most of his days beside when things had gotten too loud. When he'd ached for that person who's his soulmate. His destined partner.

 

_Sigmund Cosse_

_'May You Find Solace In Mortality'_

 

The same words he'd tell each subject before he'd photograph them- a morbid type of wish that expressed Sigmund quite wonderfully. He laid the flowers down, eyes stinging with unshed tears as he ran his hand on the stone, a rueful smile on his lips.

 

"May you find Solace," he murmured to himself, voice hushed and broken.

 

His eyes caught the glint of something shiny in the grass, as he moved to pick it up- the anger that rolled in his stomach grew. A crucifix necklace had been placed on the headstone- the promise of the Heavens above watching over another passing soul. To guide him to Heaven where he shall earn paradise and be freed from suffering.

 

 **'** _Insolent_ _fools_ **,'** the woman seethed.

 

He had moved to sit below the tree, his back pressed to trunk of it as he pulled up his sleeve, watching the words that danced on his flesh.

 

_Anathema Sit._

_Let him be Anathema_

_Let him be cursed._

 

 

 

"I know I'm not a good person," he started, looking up at the branches- able to see flickers of the sky. "And I know that I didn't deserve that second chance."

 

 **'Child, you must be strong. Find the strength in the losses we've faced and use it to push forward.'** the prophet urged.

 

_Do you believe in Fate?_

 

"And if this was what you've had in store for Sigmund then how  _dare_ you?" anger bubbled in his core but he decided to continue on, "You had to punish  _me,_ my actions and what I've done. Why did you bring him into this? My own father fucked me and I didn't sense no...divine retribution for his  **vile** intentions."

 

The chirping of crickets continued on, the white static was a dull thrum.

 

(I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.)

 

He felt like crying, not out of sadness, he'd done that rightfully to Sigmund and Sigmund  _alone_. No, he felt cheated and bested- he felt that his recklessness has caused his loved one to be the centre of this situation. But-

 

"He deserves to go to Heaven! To receive paradise because he was a wonderful man that you took from here! Fr-from  _me_ ," he hollered brokenly, rubbing furiously at his eyes before he continued staring up to the branches overhead, "Condemn me to Hell then! When I die, send me to the fires- strip me of my dignity and rationality, I don't  _care!"_

 

_"But I want Sigmund to be up there!"_

 

_A pause._

 

"I know this was to show the consequences of my recklessness," he saw the writing on is forearm and scoffed, "Go ahead a exalt me from your kingdom!" He yelled, his throat hurting and his heart bleeding all the more to not be here.

 

To no longer deal with living without the one who'd completed him. the man who was his world and his sun. The man that purified the sludge in his veins and that rejuvenated the blackened mess of organs- into a decent human being.

 

He sighed, rising to his feet to begin his walk back. The words he repeated in his own head were like a mantra now, grounding him to reality and urging him to deny the hushed murmur of the man, the urges to just end it- there was no point and he'd known that he'll wind up back to how he was- prior to ever meeting Sigmund.

 

_'Keep living. Live for you and live for the you that you'd want to become. The you that'd be strong and continue. I want you...to live for you.'_

 

To live for himself.

 

He wanted to become the person that would proudly stand side by side with his lover.

 

Someone worth dying for.

 

* * *

 

  **'A martyr shall receive their graces,'** the prophet preached.

 

'The drunk shall live with remorse,' the woman wailed.

 

 _'A man shall be burdened as human,'_ the man muttered.

 

'And Fate pushes them to the edge,' the child confirmed.


End file.
